


paradise (whatever you like best)

by elizabethelizabeth



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Aziraphale Has a Vulva (Good Omens), Crowley Has A Vulva (Good Omens), F/F, Face-Sitting, Ineffable Wives | Female Aziraphale/Female Crowley (Good Omens), Oral Sex, Post-Canon, She/Her Pronouns for Aziraphale (Good Omens), She/Her Pronouns for Crowley (Good Omens), South Downs Cottage (Good Omens), dictionary definitions and how they're sexy actually
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-30
Updated: 2020-10-30
Packaged: 2021-03-09 03:35:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27288001
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elizabethelizabeth/pseuds/elizabethelizabeth
Summary: "More compliments." Crowley raises a hand and counts them off on her fingers. "You're gorgeous. You're very warm and wonderful. I love you.""That last one's not strictly a compliment."
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 3
Kudos: 86
Collections: Ineffable Wives Exchange 2020





	paradise (whatever you like best)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MulaSaWala](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MulaSaWala/gifts).



> written for MulaSaWala, who asked for nsfw and fluff with bottom Aziraphale content <3

“You,” Crowley says with an accusatory hand wave in Aziraphale’s general direction “are a menace.”

Aziraphale, to Crowley’s further annoyance, does not look up from the novel she’s reading (which, from the thickness of it, is either a Victorian morality tale or a Greek epic in its original language). “A technical impossibility. _Menace_ comes from the Latin word for _threatening_.” Aziraphale raises her eyes—not even her whole head, just her eyes—to level Crowley with an accusatory gaze of her own. “I think you’d know if I was threatening you.”

That’s a test if Crowley ever came across one, which she has. More than that, Crowley is the master of tests and trials and temptations. Of humans, that is. It’s much more complicated to tempt an angel. Or, it was before the veritable failure of an armageddon. Nowadays, it’s just impossible—Crowley can’t get a chance at tempting Aziraphale because, more often than not, Aziraphale beats her to it. 

Like now, for instance.

The setting, the ambiance, the lighting—all of it a testament to temptation and the craft of it. Perhaps Crowley taught Aziraphale too well, all those years ago. The angel in question is lounging on their bed, artfully displacing the autumn duvet (grey with emerald leaves of ivy). It fulfills a facade of Aziraphale lying on greenery and earth in the comfort of their home. A Venus or a Proserpina in a garden, romanesque and indulgent, she sprawls on her left side with her knees bent and her head supported by a hand not holding her book. She is bereft of all adornments save her signet ring. The light, what little of it there is, silhouettes Aziraphale's body and makes her short curls glow brighter (although, when Crowley thinks on it, the glowing might be some angelic miracle to make Aziraphale appear more rapturous and appealing. Not that she needs the assistance, of course, but the effect works wonders). 

Aziraphale moves before Crowley can get too caught up in the distraction, and that's _definitely_ cheating. A stretch, a turn, and the angel is lying on her back, book forgotten. She has never broken her gaze.

"You're being very chivalrous."

"Huh?" Crowley asks dumbly, too preoccupied with Aziraphale's indulgent smile.

"Here I am, on display for you, practically paradisiacal—"

"How do you figure?"

"You want me to explain my word choice? Now?"

"Well," Crowley draws out the word. It's her turn to tease. "You did lecture me on my use of menace earlier. It's only fair."

Aziraphale rolls her eyes, but it's the only indication she gives of exasperation. "I'll make you a deal," and that's _dangerous_. Even a year ago, making deals with a devil was the easiest route to damnation, and making a deal with an angel was just as incriminating. This is a new universe they live in, though. The world is in coda, in epilogue, a series of ellipses with infinite implications. An angel and a demon striking an accord now could mean destruction, but more often than not it is a mere indication of an ordinary day. "Undress to your level of comfort, come to bed, and I will explain my exact meaning in full."

Crowley fidgets even as she undresses, fingers missing buttons and feet catching on fabric that falls haphazardly to the floor. She almost trips and falls on her face no less than three times, and she curses with every fumble. Not only because she's embarrassed, but her nervous ineptitude forces her eyes away from Aziraphale's sprawl, her slow hands, and her bright eyes that hold unashamed truth. Finally, after too long an eternity of undressing, Crowley clambers onto the bed and matches the angel's nakedness. She kneels beside Aziraphale's prone figure.

Pleased and proud in equal measure, it is Aziraphale's turn to slide her gaze along Crowley's body. Steady even as she breathes a little more heavily than usual, Crowley watches the movement of Aziraphale's eyes with serpentine focus, her senses on alert for change or distinction. 

The two of them stare at each other for multiple moments, miraculously lengthened. They survived on tension for six thousand years, some of it good and most of it otherwise, but there are times when its return is welcome. It makes movement seem slower, languorous. When Aziraphale parts her legs, the motion immediately draws Crowley's attention. 

Aziraphale is wet; the light catches on her slick. She is an illuminated manuscript, immaculate and well-kept and well-loved.

"Crowley, darling," another slow movement before the moments return to their normal route. Her hand outstretched and beseeching. "Please?"

Crowley takes the hand in equal parts eagerness and gentleness and kisses the palm not-so-holily. She doesn't linger—she is kissing the angel's lips before Aziraphale can insist on it. There is a faint taste of something decadently sweet on her tongue, but it is only a hint compared to the essence of angel. Crowley's good with words when she puts her mind to it, but there's an indescribable _something_ in the way Aziraphale tastes that might be Heaven, or angel, or a farce cooked up by Crowley's overactive imagination. A mouth is a mouth is a mouth, and Aziraphale's tongue roves and caresses as any other tongue would (Crowley assumes), and maybe there is nothing exemplary in Aziraphale's taste except that Crowley loves it and that is exactly what makes it exemplary.

Far too much thinking has gone on so far, however. 

So, Crowley goes mindless. She speaks without preamble, she intentionally loses herself. All those years spent never saying what she really wanted to, she'll submit to honesty. "Want to make you feel good, angel. I love you, you deserve—" the world, really, but that is too broad a suggestion for the night, "—the universe. Everything, I'd give you whatever you want."

"And I you, Crowley." Aziraphale speaks softly, words murmured into Crowley's cheek, hands raking through Crowley's hair. "I want..." The words lose momentum, distracted in favor of another kiss.

"Tell me," Crowley insists.

"Taste me." The suggestion sounds sinful from Aziraphale's lips, but it's nothing compared to "Fuck me."

Crowley moans, the first of many, and does not dawdle as she kisses down Aziraphale's body. "With pleasure."

As if they were capable of acting any other way.

Crowley entertains the idea of being a tease: it's always a little demonically gratifying to watch the angel squirm, to moan in desperation and want, unashamed in her desires. Tonight requires a different hand, though. She could go slow, luxuriate in a bit more tension. On the other hand, Aziraphale had asked so nicely.

Crowley admires Aziraphale's cunt for the last slow moment of the evening before laving her tongue over her clit.

"Fuck, darling," Aziraphale spreads her legs. Aziraphale begins her explanation breathlessly. “ _Paradisiacal_ , from _paradise._ We can trace the world back to Old English, used as shorthand for the first garden. Eden. What could be more of paradise than the baring of skin?”

Crowley doesn’t grin, even though she wants to. Instead, she traces out the letters of _clever_ onto Aziraphale’s clit.

Their position is precarious at best, seeing as the pair of them are situated in every wrong direction on their bed, but a right direction on a bed means nothing, really. The bed accommodates after Aziraphale has a moment of clarity. "Oh, fuck."

Crowley pulls her mouth away and replaces it with her fingers, dampened with a miracle, moving in diffused circles. "Cheating again. You know what you swearing does to me."

"Do I?" Maybe Crowley resolved not to tease, but Aziraphale made no such commitment. "Whatever it is I do to you, I do hope you'll tell me."

"Show you, more like. Now hush and let me lick you some more."

"Such a way with words," but, ironically, the last one of that sentence disappears into another moan as Crowley sets about exploring further. With Aziraphale so advantageously spread out beneath her, Crowley has room to roam, tasting her folds and the evidence of her arousal, its source, travels back to her clit to give it reprieve. 

It is not a tease, not really. Not when she's doing exactly as Aziraphale asked her.

Speaking of...

Crowley speaks fast in between licks, but places her fingertips at Aziraphale's entrance to aid her question. "Can I-"

"Please, Crowley," Aziraphale answers, desperate, words barely comprehendible between and beneath her whimpers.

Crowley does not move slowly, but she does savor the movement. She loves this. She loves the inviting heat of Aziraphale’s cunt, the velvet and satin smoothness, the tight hold of her body. To be a tongue trapped in that heat, but that is not exactly what Aziraphale had requested. Later, perhaps. Aziraphale bends one of her knees and uses her new leverage to push herself further onto Crowley's fingers. Greedy angel.

God, Crowley loves her.

Aziraphale meets every one of Crowley's thrusts when she starts out, methodical and focused. One of Aziraphale's hands buries itself in Crowley's hair, grip tight and unwavering. Crowley takes it as a cue to move faster.

They could go like this for hours. When one isn't beholden to the limitations of humans, there are some that would take advantage. Really, Crowley could ravish the angel for days and never tire. Aziraphale could be ravished and never hunger. The sun might rise and set and rise again in an endless cycle. Perhaps it does.

Or, perhaps, Crowley moves faster, spurred on by Aziraphale's words becoming more desperate.

"Oh, you're so good to me, Crowley. I love you so much, love all of you, everything." Aziraphale tilts her head up, meets Crowley's gaze, and realizes Crowley has been looking at her the whole time, gauging her reactions and her desires. The realization is sudden. "I'm going to come."

The answering glint in Crowley's eyes is easily understood. _Of course you are._

The waves and reverberations are immediate, so much so that Aziraphale is left breathless. She cries out, no words, not even Crowley's name, which is the most startling evidence of the intensity of this orgasm. She does shake, though, and thrust herself against Crowley's mouth in a bid for more, _more_ , the angel wants so much more, if it were possible to give her more Crowley would in the snap of a second.

The shaking slows. Crowley kisses the hair of Aziraphale's sex before she pulls out and away. Aziraphale laughs and waves a hand determinedly, if shakily in Crowley's direction. "Come up here, serpent."

Crowley hesitates. "You sure?"

"I insist on it, actually."

Crowley doesn't need to be told twice.

The angel's movements are sluggish in the wake of her pleasure, but she's still strong. As soon as Crowley is within grasp, she's pulled and placed on her knees above the angel's head, hovering and, hopefully, looking as delectable as Aziraphale did. Aziraphale's tongue harbors no such slowness as she delves into Crowley, fucking into her shallowly but decisively.

"Oh, God, ange-Aziraphale!"

Crowley wants to move her hips as Aziraphale did, but the angel's grasp on her hips is unrelenting. Crowley has no choice but to take the pleasure given to her.

It's only fair, after all.

Worked up from hearing and witnessing Aziraphale's rapture earlier, Crowley comes quickly and loudly, cursing and just feeling Aziraphale’s grin against her. Crowley falls backward and off of the angel, her head nestling next to Aziraphale's warm thigh. She could move, the both of them could, but taking a moment to calm their breathing and gain their bearings is more paramount.

"Your tongue was crafted of the deepest pits of Hell, angel. You're entirely too good at getting me off."

"I would be offended," Aziraphale pauses to kiss Crowley's hip. "But I know you mean that as a compliment, however roundabout it may be."

"More compliments." Crowley raises a hand and counts them off on her fingers. "You're gorgeous. I genuinely love eating you out because you taste amazing. You're very warm and wonderful. I love you."

"That last one's not strictly a compliment."

"But it is true." Crowley finally gathers the energy to move (flop, actually) into position next to Aziraphale, her head burrowed in Aziraphale's neck instead of her thigh. "And truth...good."

"Astutely put, my love."

Words are overrated, anyway, Crowley thinks.


End file.
